My Gift To You
by Jekyde
Summary: Not a From Hell story, but there's no Jack the Ripper category. This is a 'ficlet' of sorts from a role-playing forum I was in where Jack tries to get the attention of one Sherlock Holmes, who had introduced himself as Mr. Hauser.


Polly, as she had the wont to be called, was a very clean, well spoken woman who always seemed to keep to herself which, more than once, had me question her chosen profession. A curiosity I never indulged regardless of my distaste. Her and her husband of twenty-four years had lived in various cities of England, most recently being London, lodged in Peabody Buildings, housing her five darling children of three boys and two girls. When they separated her former husband continued to pay support tithes until he realized that she had fallen into an unfortunate crowd. It was perhaps that catalyst that had her turn her attentions fully to such an repugnant profession.

At no more than two inches above five feet, her brown eyes, dark complexion and brown hair dusted by gray studiously reminded me of someone dear and it was perhaps for this reason alone that she caught my eye. We have never spoken, Polly and I, but I knew her intimately. I did not need to dig through the proverbial muck and mire of her thoughts and memories. I knew how to watch, how to listen. With time I knew how she earned the tiny, barely seen scar on her forehead in her childhood. I knew of the nurse her husband laid with — her words of this were far more elaborate and I daren't repeat them in respectable company. Most of all, I knew of her patterns.

She had been shockingly drunk when she left her lodgings at 18 Thrawl Street, likely at the behest of a night's companion. Though inebriated she arrived at a timely manner to the Frying Pan Public House at that very corner and, astonishingly enough, it was done without using the neighbouring wall as support. Had she done so, she may have heard the footsteps of others behind her. Her stay at the House was not lengthy, an hour or more before she was promptly dismissed for being unable to produce her doss money. Counting the number of visitors she had, I would believe that she earned her share two, if not three, times over. Its weight was poured into each glass of spirits that passed her lips.

I am a patient man, and so I waited unnoticed and unnoted in the thick, stifling fog. London was a perfect city for us. We could move about unseen, sate our hungers and be back within the cozy warmth of our parlours by the night's end without so much as a whimper from the public. As Polly turned the corner of Whitechapel Road and Osborn Street, there was not so much as a whimper from her as well. The strike to her jaw was not brutal but in her current state it may as well have been made from spun glass. Now, dear reader, I cannot say I commonly strike women, but at this time she was less a woman and more of a sacrifice.

She had been so proud of the black straw bonnet that she received from a visitor and I took great care to carry it along with her unconscious form to Buck's Row. I could not chance an unfortunate strolling up while I trussed up this chosen one in the dim illumination that was provided by the single gas lamp at the end of the street. I silenced her swiftly as she began to awaken with a quick and precise incision an inch below her jaw, piercing her larynx with the blade I had another purchase earlier this evening. I was not so concerned that the blade would be found, though should it I wished for it to pass through many hands before it would find my own. It was not until that moment that my gloved fingers touched it. After the light had died in her eyes and the last beached fish gape twitched at her lips, I focused on my task with a clinical detachment.

I continued the incision, cutting across until I was forced to stop due to the length of the blade. It was longer than what I was used to, though it would have to do. It was sharp enough where there was minimal spatter when the cut was complete. I had ensured she bled out enough to avoid a shower. The cut was deep, severing tissue and arteries down to the vertebrae. Had I gone further she would have been beheaded completely. I will not go into grandiose detail as to the careful mutilation of Miss Polly's body. While how she was sliced open for me to retrieve a trophy—her heart—was a bit of a curiosity, the way I left her positioned was of more importance.

Her left leg lay in line of her body while the right was bent at the knee and thigh. I, of course, kept her frock bunched up past her torso for the inverted T-shaped incision to air. Her chest cavity remained intact despite the organ I had chosen to take with me. Proper tools saw to its removal with little fuss and equally less of a mess. I was not concerned of the blood that pooled, the angle of the street washed it away into the nearby gutter. A waste, but my hunger was previously satisfied where I felt no pressing need for her flavour upon my tongue. After closing her eyes and turning her head to the right toward the rise of the sun, I took my leave of the scene but not before I took a brief respite into the neighbouring abode, ensuring that the homely woman within was still slumbering as I had left her. No witnesses; my villainy had been draped within the shrouding cloak of the night and its lingering fog.

I lived alone in my small loft. I had no need of retainers and the only visitor I received was the land lord who sought his monthly doss money. There was none to tip my hat to when I returned from my walk. The only introduction I received was from a passenger that had been quite literally acting as a stowaway. Were I not one to peruse my mirror before I bedded down for the day I may have missed the speck that lay on my shoulder. A devious cretin that was a glaring reminder of the night's deeds. I am not a murderer at heart, my faithful reader. Before this evening I have killed for a reason, for survival.

Tonight was different. Tonight was an indulgence.

Removing my gloves, my jacket and trousers, then my waistcoat, shirt and neck-tie, I pored over every stitch of the garments, turning the material methodically, occasionally bringing a piece up close to my eye-glass. I felt like an archaeologist eagerly examining some rare and mystical object that could be of great worth. Finally, I inspected my hat and placed my boots on the table. Bathed in the dim glow of my lantern I went carefully and meticulously over the upper surfaces and soles of each boot with a dampened handkerchief, using slow circular movements and stopping every few seconds to see whether the white linen had taken up any incriminating residue of blood.

Presently satisfied that I could find no other physical traces, I returned to the wash-room where I thoroughly soaked my shirt collar in cold water to remove the blood stain. It was one of my more favoured shirts and I would not see it ruined by my excursion. With but little time until sleep over came me I sat behind my oak desk and took a pen to paper, to document in my memoirs the night's events. It was never a common practice; the last I wrote was some time ago but now I felt the need to keep notes.

You see, Mr. Hauser, we are alike you and I, were we must be stimulated or find ourselves beset by idleness. There was one thing I had failed to mention in my regard of you; you have been struck with an idleness that is nearly bone deep. Busy you may be, though not with what truly stimulates you. You need a challenge, a distraction. Something you can sink your teeth into.

This, my dear detective, is my gift to you.


End file.
